


Your John, Your Home

by loststardust



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mild Sexual Content, Non-Canon Relationship, Romantic Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27315670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loststardust/pseuds/loststardust
Summary: You’re the girl they picked to marry John, and he’s the one you found your home in.
Relationships: John Shelby/Original Female Character(s), John Shelby/Reader, John Shelby/You
Comments: 13
Kudos: 62





	Your John, Your Home

It’s Tommy’s wedding day, something you thought would never come, and John is yet to finish dressing. Running late as he always does, despite him hounding after you to be ready on time. 

You’re sat by the vanity, watching him loop his tie over and over, fingers clumsy and directionless. He’s still not learnt how to do them properly, but you’re too caught up in staring at him to offer any help. There’s something about formal suits that make him mesmerising. You’re used to his every-day attire, the waistcoats, the tweed jackets, but the crisp pinstripes running down his trouser legs make you feel like a woman in a movie. Like you’re the sweetheart and he’s the hero, like you’ve been through everything that you have, just for him, and now you’ve won. You’ve got your prize. 

Sighing, he swears under his breath and lets the tie fall open around his neck. ‘Will you do this bloody thing?’ he asks, darting a look in your direction. He reaches for the suit-jacket and begins pulling it onto his shoulders. When you don’t answer him, he glances again and says, ‘What is it?’ like he might be in trouble. 

‘Do you think you would’ve liked me if we met normally?’ you ask, slouching in the chair as you pool your thoughts into the room. ‘Like, if you weren’t forced to marry me?’

His hands still, brows scrunching over the bridge of his nose. ‘Are you kidding?’

You shake your head, almost embarrassed to say that part out loud; yes, I’m really asking that, John. Yes, I worry. There wasn’t a day that had passed without you considering it. Was he just making do with what he had? Would he have chosen you, if he’d had the chance to choose at all? You know what your answer would be.

He crosses the room in three steps and takes your face between his palms. He looks serious, and he never looks serious about anything really. ‘I won the fucking lottery with you,’ he says, accent thick and strong like it is when he speaks from the heart. ‘If I could go back in time, I’d pick you again, and again, and a-fucking-gain, alright?’

‘Even if I was just some girl in the Garrison?’ 

‘Even if you were a fucking witch in the forrest,’ he answers quickly, certainly. His thumbs rub up and across your cheekbones. ‘You’re mine, yeah, you’re perfect.’ Bending, he pushes a kiss into your forehead and mutters, ‘Was fucking fate when they put us together.’ And for him, that’s poetry. That’s the softness he only gives when you’re alone, when you need it. It’s touchable love, crafted and trickled into your ears, poured over you like he’s full of it.

‘Thank-you,’ you tell him, smiling easily. ‘I’ll only ask again in a month, but that’ll do me for now.’

He snorts through his nose and straightens, running a palm over your hair. ‘You just like seeing me soft, don’t you?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Well, only for you, yeah?’ He tilts down again for a kiss and you stretch to meet him in the middle. ‘No-one else has me speaking like a fucking Eton boy,’ he says, quietly, into the soft of your cheek. 

You laugh, kissing him again before you reply. ‘You couldn’t if you tried, J.’ He’s too rough for it, too shaped by the smog and the fighting. ‘I wouldn’t like you so much if you were an Eton boy.’

When you were first married, you had barely known what to do with yourself. After the drama of Ada’s birth, and John’s frantic attempt to catch you up with everything that had passed, you hadn’t had time to discuss the ceremony. Or the arrangement. Or even consummate the damn thing. He’d told you everything, all the family intricacies he could, by the lamplight in his little room, and then he’d passed out on your lap like a dog before the fire. Too tired and full of beer to give you anything more than secrets. 

You hadn’t minded though, not really, it had given you time to think. To breathe. You’d sat and taken in every detail of his face, every freckle along his nose, every nick of scar tissue on his skin, his cheeks, his shoulders. You’d looked and looked and looked, until you felt so comfortable with him, and so entranced by the sight of him, quiet and peaceful, that you had almost convinced yourself you’d known him for years. He felt familiar without even doing anything. You’d ran your finger across his brows and down the line of his nose, and when he’d whined and pulled into you, putting his arms around your waist, you’d felt like you were coming home. Or that he was coming home, finding it in you. It was the gin, you thought, it was the length of the day and the ache from dancing that had made your brain think things that weren’t true. 

But then you’d woken up in the morning, and it had still felt like you were home and that he was the key. And it kept feeling like that, over and over. It had felt like that the first time you’d fucked, the first time you sat with him at breakfast, and made him tea, and food for his children. It had felt like that every time you saw him smile, every time he laughed. It had felt that way because he was, somehow, he was. He was home and he’d been handed to you over an upturned milk crate, knelt in front of your father’s caravan. It was a truce, yes, a deal between families, but it had been a hand out in the cold, a light in the distance. You had never realised you were always wandering, looking for a way back, until you had felt the pull of John beside you. The call of home at last. 

‘Oi,’ he says, tapping his finger on your chin. ‘Where’ve you gone?’

‘Nowhere.’ You smile and look up at him like he’s gold in a river-sieve. ‘Shall we go?’ 

‘Not ’til you’ve sorted this fucking thing.’ He dangles the end of the tie in front of you and then, thinking better of it, pulls it from under his collar and puts it onto your lap. ‘Do it in the car, we’re gonna be late.’

You’re sitting with the tie knotted, and hanging around your neck, when he pulls the car into the road by the church. There’s guests already gathering, but not a lot which is a good sign. It means you aren’t late, not in trouble, not yet. Polly will be inside somewhere, wrangling the kids so you don’t have to. God bless her. She’d offered to watch them before hand, willing, but begrudging all the same, and you couldn’t help but feel glad of the time it’d given you and John. It’d been months since you had any peace, had the freedom to go about your morning slowly and intimately. It’d made everything feel even more special. It wasn’t your day, no, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be an occasion for the two of you. 

You let your gaze draw from the flowers by the entrance to settle on John, who’s craning his neck out the window to see himself in the wing-mirror. 

‘Is my hair alright?’ he asks, pawing at the parting he’s given himself.

‘Yes,’ you answer, grinning though you want to roll your eyes. ‘Christ, John, it’s not you going up the aisle, y’know?’ 

He tuts. ‘I won’t look like shit with the fucking cavalry there.’

‘You don’t look like shit.’ 

‘You sure?’ He pulls back into his seat to look at you.

‘Yes, I’m sure.’ You lift the tie over your head and onto his, settling it under his collar. ‘I’m sure you’ll find a very nice soldier to-‘

‘Alright,’ he drawls, ‘very funny.’

You laugh and push the knot tight to his neck. ‘Seriously,’ you say, ‘stop fretting. They’re gonna look like a bunch of unlit matches standing there in their uniforms.’ 

‘Bunch of fucking pricks more like,’ he grumbles, eyes flitting over your face. ‘Have I said you look beautiful yet?’

‘No, not yet.’ You hang onto his tie, dragging him forward until you’re kissing and he’s speaking into your mouth between pecks. 

‘Well,’ he says, ‘you look. Fucking.’ You bite his lip; he swallows once before trying again. ‘You look…’

‘Hm?’

‘Stunning.’

‘Thank-you,’ you purr, breaking away and leaving him to gawk. His mouth’s red from meeting with your lipstick. ‘I was waiting for you to say something.’

His hand goes to your face, to your hair, it sweeps it behind your ear, gentle enough to not disturb the main structure of its styling, and then drops so that his fingers can run down your neck. ‘Can I marry you again?’ he asks through the corner of a smirk. ‘Is that a thing?’

You pout, humming as if you’re considering it. ‘You’d have to divorce me first, I think.’

‘Nope, no way.’ 

‘Well then, you’ll have to settle for just the once.’

He groans and turns to open the door on his side. ‘You can’t have it all,’ he says, stepping out and away from you. You watch him cross in front of the bonnet, around the car, until he’s by you on the pavement. He pulls the door open and offers his hand, which he does every time he drives you anywhere. You don’t think you’ve opened your own door once since you’d met him. ‘Come on, Polly will have your tits if we’re late.’

You take his palm and step down, holding the fur of your shawl in place with the other hand. ‘No,’ you laugh, ‘she likes me. It’ll be your balls on the line.’

‘Yeah, and you’d miss them too much, wouldn’t you?’

‘John!’ You smack his arm lightly and move out the way so he can lock the car behind you. ‘This is a church, you know? It’s right there.’

A very ungodly grin is thrown over his shoulder at you. ‘And which one of us brought up my bollocks, ay?’ 

You laugh because you can’t do anything else, because he coaxes it from you like he’s been trained to, like he’s an expert in making your cheeks hurt from grinning. He was put on Earth specifically, you think, to make you laugh in the ugliest way possible: loud and uneven. He’s annoyingly good at it, desperately, desperately annoying. 

‘Stop it,’ you tell him, stifling the giggles. When he comes back to you, ready to link his arm with yours, you nod to his face and say, ‘You might want to…’ You point at his mouth, gesturing around its shape, following the smudge of lipstick above his cupid’s bow. ‘From the kissing,’ you explain.

In one second, his eyebrows pinch and then crumple down in annoyance. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, babe.’ He turns quickly, bending to look in the mirror closest. ‘I look like a fucking clown,’ he moans. He scrubs at his lips, licking his fingers once, then again, to wash the red-stain away. It comes off easily, but his frantic rubbing will only leave more of a mark. 

‘You don’t need to rub that hard,’ you say.

‘Am not going in there with fucking lipstick on. S’not funny.’ 

But it is, and you laugh again, because he’s just so John, and so silly, and everything he does makes your heart dip into the same sickly ambrosia.

You put your hands out for him. Wave him forward like you’re consoling a child. ‘Come here, let me see.’

After they took Epsom, John had come home with his tail between his legs. Cap off, shoulders slack, he’d walked through the front door like they’d lost, not won. Like something had gone wrong. He stood in the doorway to the kitchen and cleared his throat once, like he had something to say, and then he’d looked from you, to Katie and the baby, and said nothing at all. It was the only time he’d ever looked like a stranger in the house he’d bought for you. 

‘What’s happened?’ you’d asked, standing from the table as soon as you’d seen him. ‘Katie, take your brother upstairs.’

‘We got it,’ John had started. ‘Epsom. It’s ours.’

‘Okay?’ You walked toward him; slow, like snowfall pulling down from the sky, drifting until it found something to cling to, something to wrap around. ‘So, what’s wrong?’ You put your hands to his biceps, ran them up until you were looped around the back of his neck. He looked tired. Weary but not damaged, not hurt. A few scuffs that wouldn’t last past the next day. ‘You look worried, John,’ you said, prompting him to tell you more.

‘It’s Tommy,’ he forced out, looking between you, his gaze aiming for the floor. ‘They took him,’ he said, ‘some coppers. We haven’t.’ He stopped mid-sentence and you finished for him because you knew nothing else would come, he wouldn’t push any words that didn’t fall easily.

‘He’ll be fine,’ you told him, out of comfort rather than certainty. ‘Tommy always has a plan.’

‘This wasn’t fuckin’ part of it.’

‘I know.’ You rubbed your thumbs into the shortest part of his hair. ‘He’ll turn up, he always does.’

And he did, of course he did, but it took you twenty minutes to wind John down, to get him sitting and somewhat comfortable. It was only after the call from Pol, telling you that Tommy was fine, that he let you make him something to eat. Let you look after him properly. You sat at the table and watched him take slow forkfuls of food, lagging with each bite. 

‘He’s alright,’ you said to him, leaning on your palm. ‘Why do you still look stressed?’

‘I’m not.’ He lowered his fork until it was flat on the plate; he looked at it like it had done it all by itself. 

‘John.’

‘It’s nothing.’

You sighed and the sound itched life under his skin, animating his features with a burst of agitation. 

‘I felt fucking invincible,’ he said. ‘Then it went bad and, I don’t know, feels fucking stupid, doesn’t it?’

You sat upright, reached a hand for his, but he ignored it. ‘What does?’ you asked.

‘All of it,’ he spat, his face reddening. It twisted up until he was scowling, throwing words into the woodgrain. ‘What’s the point in having fuckin’ Epsom, if they can just, just, put you in the back of a van and fucking cart you away?’

He’d flung his hand out then, catching the plate and sending it across the table to you. It rattled against the top as he continued. 

‘We can go as fucking high as we like,’ he said, ‘and they’ll still treat us like dogs. Like fuckin’ mutts.’

You’d set your jaw, wound your fingers through his and put both of your hands down to still the fidgeting. ‘Then we go high enough that we’re the ones doing the carting, John.’ You’d ducked your head to make sure he saw your look, your promise. ‘We’re no-ones bloody dogs, alright? Not now, not ever.’

He’d scoffed and recoiled bitterly. ‘It’s not like we have a fucking say, is it?’

‘Course we do,’ you’d told him. Of course we do. 

The wedding ceremony is over, and now the party’s been taken to Arrow House; the rooms are stocked with guests, the ceiling pushed high with noises, with music, with chatter. Your head’s spinning and it’s only a fraction to do with the alcohol. 

‘I don’t think I’ll last til dinner at this rate,’ you say to John, who’s got you leaning against him in the largest room. How they’d managed to clear enough furniture away to make it feel like a dancehall, you’ve no idea, but it’s convincing enough that you hardly believe you’re in a home at all. ‘Who the fuck are these people anyway?’ you ask. 'I don’t recognise any of them.’

His hold tightens over you, pulling your back flat to his chest. He’s got his arms across you like bandoliers. ‘Grace’s lot mostly,’ he says into your ear, chin on your shoulder. ‘Lot of fucking rich boys in suits too big for them.’

You snort. 'You’re a rich boy too now, J. They’re probably looking at you and thinking the same.’

‘Nah, they can’t even fucking look at me, see.’ He nods forward, to a man in a red uniform opposite. ‘Y’alright?’ he booms; you can hear the smirk without turning to look. The soldier lifts his gaze, catching the pair of you for a moment, before looking away quickly. Like he’d caught sight of something indecent. ‘See?’ John boasts. ‘We’re like fucking ghosts to them.’

‘You’re enjoying that too much,’ you quip, though your own grin betrays your words. It still feels nice to be on the Peaky side. The side with power, danger. The ones people were afraid of. ‘If I ask you to dance, will you say no and break my heart?’ you ask, twisting your head away from his in order to flash him your best pout, to trap him with your eyes. 

He smirks, squeezing you in response. ‘I’d be mad to tell you no. Come on.’ 

He peels himself off you, but leaves a hand dragging, cloying, snaking down your arm until he has his palm locked tight around yours. He tugs you into the centre of the room, melting the two of you into the crowd. 

‘I still think ours was better,’ he says, smugly, once he’s picked a rhythm and stuck to it. ‘Our wedding.’

‘Yeah?’ You let him spin you. ‘Wouldn’t do it differently now we have the money?’

He shakes his head; the rose in his breast pocket teeters on the edge. ‘No way. Too fucking poncy for us.’

You agree with him, nodding, and laugh as he dips you half-way to the ground. ‘You drop me and I’ll fucking cut you, J.’

‘Do I look like I’m gonna drop you?’ he replies, grinning wildly. Your mad man, you think, your wonderful bucket of frogs. He pulls you up again and you fall against him with the force of it, chests held tight to each other as he pours all the wonder and drunken giddiness from his eyes, into yours. ‘This wedding’s done something to my head,’ he pants, looking bewildered. 

You’re smiling before he’s even said why. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘I can’t stop thinking about how much I fuckin’ love you,’ he says. ‘I’m gonna explode with it.’

‘Alright,’ you laugh. ‘Explode then, I’ll do it with you.’ 

When you’d been married a month, just a month, you’d accidentally told him that you thought you loved him. It had fallen out of your mouth and onto the foot of the bed like a woollen blanket. A sock. A piece of clothing kicked off in the night without care, without thinking.

‘What?’ he’d said, quicker than you’d hoped, head snapping up from where he sat. You had wanted him to miss it entirely. You were married, yes, but it wasn’t like other marriages. You were working backwards, unpicking the puzzle after it had been made. ‘What did you say?’ 

‘Can’t I say it?’ you’d asked back, stalling time for your head, for your heart, to decide if it had really meant it. 

He was on the edge of the bed, undoing his boots, but then he’d stopped. The ends of his laces clicked against the floorboards. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I don’t know if I heard you right.’

‘Then don’t worry about it.’ 

You tried to brush it away, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled you to stand in front of him.

‘Say it again,’ he told you and, if it wasn’t for that slight smirk on his lips, that tiny curl of enjoyment, of wishful thinking, you would’ve bolted. You would’ve told him to stop being so bloody annoying for once. But he sat there, looking up at you, with an almost-grin behind his features, and you’d thought, alright. Alright, sure, why not. 

‘I think I love you,’ you’d said quickly, and it bounced right off his pretty face, back into your stomach, back to mingle with the butterflies. 

‘You think?’

You nodded. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

His grin settled, flourished. Grew wide and made home in his cheeks. ‘I think you have,’ he said, ‘I think you do.’

‘If you think so much, then why do I need to?’ You stepped forward and his arms had gone up to your waist like it was choreographed, like his hands knew their target without an invite. He held you steady and you found yourself toying with his hair, looking down at him fondly, so fondly. ‘I shouldn’t have to say it if you know so well,’ you’d mused.

He turned his head and kissed your forearm. ‘Just wanna hear it, from the boss herself.’ 

You’d snorted at the nickname, the false title he’d adopted to make you feel appreciated, valued. It only came out when he was being playful.

‘Okay,’ you’d said, ‘I love you, then,’ and he’d answered, ‘Okay, well I love you back.’ 

John, for all his goodness, for all his charm and well-meant nature, could be a devil walking when he wanted to be. Right now, right in the middle of a dinner party, in the middle of a fucking wedding reception, he’s being the very fire-scorched man himself. He’s got you bundled in his arms again, coaxing you from the party, tempting you with kisses and words, and touches in places he knows will break you down into nothing more than a woman; a woman who wants a man, her man, his touch, his heat. He’s tugging you out of Arrow House, away from the smokers, across the gravel. Spinning and twisting until you’re dizzy with him, lost entirely.

‘John,’ you laugh, pushing against him weakly, falsely, ‘someones going to see us.’

He drags his lips up your neck. ‘They’ll look away if they know what’s good for ‘em.’

You meet his mouth as he offers it, kissing him like you’re coal and he’s fire and that’s the spark, there it goes, up it comes. ‘You’re taking me to the car, aren’t you?’ you ask, pulling back to look at him. He’s foggy, eyes glazed with lust, desperate with need. Beautiful in the most boyish way. 

‘You read my mind,’ he says. He drops his lips to your hand, or maybe your hand goes to his lips, eager like ships to lighthouses, willing to be peppered, wanting to be looked for. He takes hold of it and pulls you after him into the dark, away from the noise of the party. 

You stumble along, tripping your heels through the stones, letting him guide you to where he’d parked it. Once you’re there he has you against the door, the low-cut of your dress leaving your back to meet the cold metal, the fresh steel. You gasp as your skin goes flush to it. 

‘Wanted this all bloody day,’ he says into your throat, in such a throw away manner that it could’ve been a thought, one that had escaped without him realising. He nips the skin between your breasts, then comes up for a moment to say, ‘Get in.’

You laugh and it bubbles above him, pulls him to the surface. He straightens in front of you with an eyebrow raised and waiting. ‘You’re being very bossy, J,’ you tell him.

He sighs. His hands grip the dress at your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish. ‘Please,’ he whines, needy without the shame of it, head sinking into one shoulder with the plea. ‘Please get in the car so I can fuck you.’

The smile you’re wearing might as well fly off your face and up into the stars. It’s too big to stay down, too light to not be free.

How you landed someone so perfect was beyond you. He’s every element, every angle, every part of him was made to compliment your own. So similar, that even your arguments make sense. Even your disagreements are clockwork. Ornamental. You took a gamble, you played the cards, and you’d taken the prize. You won the pot. He was yours, all yours, standing there in all his daft, gorgeous glory, loving you more and more each day. Wanting you every morning, every night. Craving you like you crave him. 

‘Why’re you smirking like that?’ he asks, frowning.

‘Because,’ you drawl sweetly, ‘when have I ever held my own door open, John Shelby?’

He groans but then matches your grin, leaning around you to pop the door open, to hold it back for you to climb in. ‘After you,’ he says, playing the part.

‘Thank-you.’ You give a half-curtsey, one led by drunken humour, and duck into the back seat, feeling him follow after you keenly. 

You’re flipped onto your back and then his lips are on you again, kissing the love into your mouth. He swirls his tongue with yours, tastes that part of you and leaves his own in return, and then pulls back, hands pawing at the silk of your gown. 

‘John,’ you scold, ‘I swear to God, if you rip this dress.’

‘I’ll buy you another,’ he pants. He pushes it up to your hips, freezing at the sound of snagging tights, of stockings tearing and losing their purpose. ‘Sorry,’ he says, though he doesn’t mean it. ‘New ones of those too.’

You hum and reach for his collar, his neck. Your nails drag down the heated skin and his eyes roll with the feeling of it. ‘Just as long as I have something to wear afterwards,’ you warn.

He folds over you again, pressing kisses and marks into your chest. ‘Anything you want, Mrs. Shelby. Say the fuckin’ word and it’s yours.’ 

It flashes across your mind, white-hot fire in the dark, sweet, lasting tenderness. It strikes onto your tongue like lightening. ‘You,’ you say. ‘I want you.’

**Author's Note:**

> this was written so so lovingly as a gift for my dearest friend so, happy birthday baby <33 hope you survived this john attack xx and also thankyou to everyone else who's read, i hope you enjoyed it too!!


End file.
